Flying through the air with the greatest of ease

When I was 11 years old, I became obsessed with Mary Lou Retton, the stocky American gymnast who had just nabbed the all-around gold medal in the ’84 Olympics. However, I was most assuredly not a gymnast. I couldn’t even do a cartwheel (my downfall later on when I wanted to become a varsity cheerleader; my mortifying “stunt” during try-outs was a diving forward roll. Doesn’t quite compare to an aerial or a roundoff double back handspring.)

But in our back yard, we had a jungle gym, which included a set of black plastic rings. Even though the rings event was a male-only event, this was the closest I would come to becoming Mary Lou. I would stand at the edge of the alley, raise my right arm to signal to the judges I was ready, race 20 feet to the rings — in my head, I saw my “stocky” legs churning and pounding down the mat just like Retton — “leap” into the air a few inches, grab the rings, swing forward, flip backward and let go. I landed solidly on the ground, straining to stick my landing, back arched, both hands in the air. My head was held high, my smile plastered on. I turned side to side, arms still raised, to acknowledge the roaring crowd and the judges. I perfected approximately 10,000 of these landings that summer.

Twenty-five years later, I decided to continue my gymnastics career when my husband, Eriq, and I signed up to take a trapeze class with the Trapeze School New York, which had recently moved its Baltimore location to Washington, DC. I’m not afraid of heights, but I am afraid of jumping off platforms into the air. Even tethered, even with a net, it’s not natural to jump off things high in the air unless you’re jumping down, with a plan for a landing. But just jumping OFF, into the air, is terrifying. I discovered this earlier this summer after helping Eriq build elements on his ropes course. He wanted me to try to jump off the 40-foot platform and hit the tether ball a few feet away. My husband had secured my harness and was belaying me, and I was confident that my dear, sweet, newlywed husband wasn’t going to allow me to plunge to my death (who would clean the bathroom and cook for him, then, right?). But preparing to jump physically is one thing — it’s more difficult when a voice inside your head is screaming like a very concerned fairy godmother, “Are you insane? That’s a 40-foot drop you’re leaping into it! DON’T DO IT!” I steeled myself, bent my knees and hopped — but I didn’t actually move. My feet never left the ground. Ten minutes of this, and I finally “lept” off the platform, but my leap disintegrated in mid-air as I yelped and just kind of fell forward. Now, I was going to try this again with a trapeze and strangers.

We began with a short safety and instructional lesson from Mike, one of the instructors whom we later saw had the most toned back and chest muscles imaginable — I didn’t even know some of those spots in my back WERE muscles. Mike taught us how to arch our back, stick our belly buttons out and trust the instructor holding on to the back of our harness as we leaned forward over the platform. Then, we practiced our bunny hop. I couldn’t even perfect this on the ground, which should have been a sign of things to come. I didn’t hop far forward enough, and Mike asked me to try again. We grabbed a trapeze bar just a few feet off the ground, and Mike led us through the actual motions that we needed to do once we were in the air. That was it. Now, time to fly.

In our group of four beginners, I went third, my husband, last. The first woman was flawless, the second was terrified, screaming the entire time she swung in the air. I was next. I hooked the safety tether into my snug harness, climbed the ladder 23 feet into the air and stood on the platform, while Mike unhooked my safety tether and hooked me to the belay line controlled by Mandy on the ground. I leaned forward, with Mike holding onto the back of my harness, arched my back, grabbed the bar with my right hand, then my left, bent my knees when he said “ready,” and when he barked “hup,” my circus cue to jump forward, I did not hop forward. My legs were rebelling. Mike just kept shouting “hup” one after the other, and I didn’t move. I giggly said “just a second” and tried to steal myself to jump forward. I thought it took me several minutes before I jumped, but, in reality, when he said “hup” the fifth time, I hopped forward just enough, and he let go. I’d like to say that I felt free, wind whipping through my hair, as I swung through the air, but to be honest, it all happened so fast and I was concentrating on Mandy’s instructions so much that I wasn’t aware of the platform behind me, the net below me or the other trapeze bar that I was supposed to arch toward. I just swung out, hooked my legs over the bar when Mandy told me to, let go with my hands, dangling in mid-air. Did I see anything? Were my eyes closed? I grabbed the bar again and tried to swing my legs back and forth as fast as Mandy was instructing me to, but I was off count and a little wobbly. When she told me to let go with another “hup,” I didn’t realize I was supposed to kick my legs forward, to form an “L” with my body, so instead, I just landed on my feet on the wobbly net. And quickly fell forward on my face. That was graceful.

The next two times I didn’t improve much. The second time was much like the first, except I jumped the first time the instructor said “hup.” My hop was barely detectable though, and my swing was slow. I landed on my face. Again. The third time I was determined to improve my hop and jumped so far forward, that I lost the natural momentum the bunny hop provides, making it impossible for me to pull my legs up over the bar. However, I did land on my butt this time, in a sitting position. After three times, I was ready to head home. I didn’t feel any freedom or excitement or wind whipping my hair as I was “flying.” I just felt frustrated and bored. I was over it. I tried it, I conquered my fear of jumping off a platform, I was never going to be Mary Lou or a member of Cirque de Soleil. I didn’t see what I would gain from taking another turn.

But Eriq, always the motivator, encouraged me softly with a few simple words that I should keep going, to show myself that I could continue to go on even when I didn’t want to. I didn’t entirely agree with him — I didn’t think “going on” during a trapeze class could be compared with “going on” when you were fighting for survival, stranded at sea or lost in the desert. But, I went on anyway. And he was right. I perfected my hop on the fourth try, swung out, arched my back perfectly, hooked my legs and let go. I saw the platform behind me for the first time, the blue, cloud-filled sky in front of me. Hey, I was flying!

I never had my timing right to attempt the back-flip landing, nor to allow me to move on to the next lesson of the day and attempt “catches” by Mike from his trapeze. But I did something new, something different. And it was exhilarating, even if my stomach muscles and trapezoid muscles (so, that’s where they get that name!) hate me today.

Advertisement